


Alone

by QueenForADay



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Angst and Tragedy, Character Death, Eskel Whump (The Witcher), Established Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Hurt Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt No Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, M/M, POV Jaskier | Dandelion, The Author Regrets Nothing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2020-12-03
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:46:35
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27860226
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/QueenForADay/pseuds/QueenForADay
Summary: It shouldn’t have happened.Yes, yes, he knows. He knows that something like this could have happened at some point. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like. He was advised, on several occasions, by several different people, to bury whatever feelings he had for the Witcher because one day, he wasn’t going to make it home.
Relationships: Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion, Eskel & Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Eskel & Lambert (The Witcher), Eskel & Vesemir (The Witcher), Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia & Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Jaskier | Dandelion & Lambert, Jaskier | Dandelion & Vesemir, Lambert & Vesemir (The Witcher)
Comments: 6
Kudos: 64





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> There are tissues and blankets in the foyer. Tea and hot chocolate are available upon request (marshmallows and cream are free). 
> 
> I didn't hold back on the angst, and honestly, that should be a content warning in its own right. 
> 
> So, you know...

It shouldn’t have happened.

Yes, yes, he _knows_. He knows that something like this _could_ have happened at some point. He knows what a Witcher’s life is like. He was advised, on several occasions, by several different people, to bury whatever feelings he had for the Witcher because one day, he wasn’t going to make it home.

And Jaskier being Jaskier, he brushed all of it off. He laughed in the face of destiny; who had been tormenting his Witcher for years, pushing all sorts of things in his way. Jaskier loves Geralt He loves him so much that his chest hurts whenever he’s with the Witcher and when he’s without. They have weathered too many storms together for him not to cherish the ground Geralt walked on. And despite all of the Witcher’s grumblings, he’s sure that Geralt felt the same about him too.

And then something like this happens.

* * *

He can’t remember a lot of it. Some healer brought in from a neighbouring town mentioned something about trauma. _Yes, well_ , Jaskier thought bitterly, _the world is very traumatising. Especially when it tries to destroy and take away everything you hold dear._ So according to that healer, his memory might be a bit sketchy for a while. And he doesn’t know if he wants to take it as a blessing or a curse.

Neither of them was alone. Maybe that’s the only good thing he can gather from the ashes.

Geralt had his brothers when the contract was given to them. They set out into the forest together, joking and roughing among themselves like wolves. Jaskier watched them slowly stalk out of the town and disappearing beyond the horizon. _They would be fine_. He assured himself of it over and over again.

The Witcher wasn’t alone when he went out on his hunt.

And Jaskier wasn’t alone when Geralt died.

* * *

It all starts to blur after a while. No matter how many times he tries to blearily bat the fog away, he can’t make out the start of one memory or the end of another. He remembers some things vividly. His throat red and raw from screaming at the sight of a bloodied Witcher hauled into the tavern. The panic that seized his whole body at how pale and sullen Geralt’s skin had turned within moments, when the healer brought in had turned away just to grab some new cloth strips.

And the shake of the healer’s head when he pulled away from Geralt’s torn chest. Red stained her hands and her arms. She wore a hollow look, her eyes not quite meeting theirs, but she mumbled what Jaskier didn’t want to hear anyway.

 _He’s gone_.

No.

No, _he wasn’t_.

He does remember firm arms catching him, holding him against a solid chest, even when he tried to lurch forward. Whether it was to fall to Geralt’s side, gather him into his arms and try and lure him back, or to roar and scream at the healer to keep trying, he doesn’t know. Maybe a bit of both. But Lambert held on to him all the same, until the last trace of fury sizzled out of him. And then his legs gave out, and Lambert followed him to the floor.

The healer left, muttering something about fetching a godswife down the road to say the last rites.

After that, Jaskier remembers nothing.

* * *

Memories come back to him in fragments.

A quiet agreement between them; go to Kaer Morhen. Home. A safe place where they can gather what’s left of their thoughts and grieve. Jaskier’s throat bobs when two sets of golden eyes fall on to him. An invitation extended.

And it does cross his mind, for a fleeting moment, to turn it down. Going there, to that keep which holds so many memories for him, it would be too much. Even thinking about it, staying in _his_ room, with _his_ family, alone, it’s enough to wring the first dry sobs out of him.

They’re close enough to the mountain to keep the body. Jaskier winced at the first time Lambert and Eskel tried to bundle their brother in blankets. They were from the tavern – a solemn gift of sorts from the innkeep who had nothing more to say other than _I’m sorry_. Jaskier didn’t need it, her pity or grief, but he nodded along all the same. But when Eskel draped a cloth wrap around Geralt’s head, his throat seized. He didn’t want to lose sight of the Witcher. Not yet. At some point, he would be interned in the ground. Or in some sort of crypt. He wasn’t sure what the protocol was for Kaer Morhen. He hadn’t seen a crypt in his previous visits, but why would he? Geralt liked showing him the baths and the great halls and the library – even Vesemir’s garden towards the top of the highest tower. Things and places that might have been stained with death at one point, but now held such life to them. And the thought of Geralt going somewhere dark and cold and _alone_ —

It’s a silent march up the mountain. Even the winds seem to have stopped for them, letting them pass without much bother. Some distant part of him wants to thank the gods – the same gods who decided to take Geralt away from him, another darker part of his mind glowers. But he doesn’t know if they could have contended with the usual trek up the mountain. The winds and the chance of rain, perhaps snow if the weather turned cold enough. None of the paths are flooded and all of the trees stand like sentinels on either side of the trails.

At the first sight of mortared stone battlements on the peaks, Jaskier’s legs threaten to give out. Kaer Morhen means letting go of Geralt. He’ll be buried and interned somewhere and Jaskier will never see him again.

He can’t deal with losing sight of him just yet.

A firm hand settles on his back, nudging him forward. He didn’t even realise he had stopped walking, frozen in place in the middle of the trail. Lambert meets his eyes. The corners of his lips are tight and pulled down. His eyes have dulled over the last day. Ever since Geralt’s heart gave out, the lights in the Witchers’ eyes haven’t been there. He isn’t sure if he’s ever seen the gold never sparkle. It was one of the many things he loved about Geralt. So many people feared his eyes. They weren’t natural. But they were beautiful – gold spun and melted and cast into eyes that watched him with reverence whenever they were together. How could he not love them?

And now he’ll never see them again.

* * *

Vesemir has always been quiet. Jaskier thought that solemn stoic-ness might have been a Witcher trait if not for Lambert being as talkative as he is. Vesemir has always been quiet; regarding Jaskier in the first few weeks of his first stay here, getting a read on the bard before letting the walls come down a bit.

And he’ll drink with them in the grand hall after dinner, warming themselves by the fire and letting the pups almost wring each other’s necks over a game of Gwent. He’ll chuckle lowly at their jokes and stories gathered from the seasons' wanderings and scold them lightly at stupid mistakes they’ve made.

But this is something else. The silence in the grand hall is deafening. Blood rushing through Jaskier’s ears is the only thing he can hear, and if he tries hard enough and lets his eyelids flutter closed, he can maybe imagine soft warm sand underneath his feet and lapping ocean water. The coast would have been nice. The sun warming his face and his skin, the days long and languid, and the rest of the Continent can do whatever it likes because he has his Witcher, and neither of them would be particularly bothered about destiny or whatever it was it had planned for them.

But there’s hard stone beneath his boots, and the winds outside pick up and howl against the walls and windows.

Vesemir’s jaw tightens. How he hasn’t cracked any teeth yet, Jaskier doesn’t know. But when he speaks, it’s a solemn rumble. “You may stay here, Jaskier,” he says through numbed lips, “for as long as you need.”

Geralt is put into his room. There _is_ a crypt in the keep, apparently. And it hasn’t been used in years. Witchers die out in the wilds, alone, on contracts. The last time anyone has had to be interned in the keep was centuries ago. And Vesemir has to delve down into the depths of the keep to ready a tomb.

Until then, Jaskier stays by Geralt’s bedside.

The Witcher is pale and motionless and somehow calm. He’s gone, something whispers against the shell of his ear. He’s gone and there’s nothing you can do to bring him back.

And maybe he entertained the idea of making some sort of barter.

If he could just walk into a temple, a temple of any of the gods, it didn’t matter who, and plead and beg and make grand offers.

_Take me. Bring him back, and take me._

_You can have whatever it is you want – just give him back to me_.

_Please._

The last of his tears left at the foot of the mountain. There’s nothing left in him to expel anymore. He’s sure that everything is numb and empty as he watches over Geralt’s body. His hands fumble on his lap. He wants to reach out; to thread his fingers through Geralt’s and keep him company.

 _He’s probably afraid_.

Jaskier’s throat bobs.

_He’s on his own and he might be so scared._

Eskel has always been the gentler brother. His stony expression cracks first. Pain scorches his eyes, but he thins his lips and approaches the bard as if he would bolt at any moment, and he gathers Jaskier into a firm hug. It’s grounding and warm and Jaskier sinks into it, blearily lifting his arms and wrapping them around Eskel. He buries noise into the Witcher’s shoulder. It hurts. Everywhere hurts and he can’t see it ever stopping. Sobs clambering up his throat and tears stinging the back of his eyes. Holding them back hurts, and so does letting them go. Jaskier clutches on to whatever he can of Eskel, and his knuckles turn white.

Time passes and he isn’t sure when his hold on Eskel loosens, but when the doors to the room groan and whine open, Jaskier’s eyes sting and he blinks. He doesn’t want him to go just yet. Not yet. Give him another few hours, at least.

Eskel settles a firm, stable hand on his shoulder. “He’s home,” the Witcher rasps. The hand on Jaskier’s shoulder squeezes. It’s the first thing he’s been able to feel properly in a while. “He’s home, and he’ll be safe.”

 _At least he isn’t out in the wilds_. And that could be the only thing giving him solace. He’ll be here, in his home, with his family, in a familiar place. And not alone.

He isn’t sure when he’ll be able to leave Kaer Morhen. He isn’t sure when the other Witchers will leave for their paths when the weather changes either. But he suspects that they’ll leave together, if how closely Eskel and Lambert keep to his side is anything to go by. Wolves are pack animals. They stick together. And Jaskier was lured into his pack a long time ago.

When Geralt is buried, he stays in the crypt. It’s below everything else in the keep; beyond the armoury and the rooms where they tested pups, beyond the baths Jaskier would spend endless winter days lounging in. It’s dark and blearily lit with flickering lanterns and torches, and everything is so still and silent. Tombs have their own inlets in the walls, lined on either side. Some are more worn than others, with their nameplates beyond recognition and cobwebs quilting over them. Geralt’s tomb – and he has to root his feet into the ground when he thinks of it like _that_ – is the further away. As the most recent death. Vesemir will join him in a few more years, lying eternally beside his son and keeping him company.

Jaskier’s throat bobs. It’s cold and dark down here, and he doesn’t like it at all. This place is of death and it’s far away from light and warmth and colour. Eskel and Lambert and Vesemir made their promises to come down here every day, when they can, and spend some time with Geralt. In the same way that he supposes people visit their relatives in graveyards and cemeteries.

Jaskier hangs his head, clasping his hands in front of him. He isn’t a religious man. He’s not a godly man by any means. The gods would laugh at his face if he ever tried to step foot inside of a temple, or strike him down as soon as he was at the door. But he can’t help but call up to them.

 _Be kind to him_ , he almost says out loud. His lips are numb and his throat is starting to close up. He hasn’t spoken since Geralt’s heart has stopped. His fingers curl around themselves, his grip white-knuckled as he bows his head. _Be kind to him. He tried. He gave this world everything when it gave him nothing back. You were all pretty horrible to him, if I must say so myself. The least you could do is making his life now easy._

The flame of a nearby torch flickers, and the crypt remains still. Jaskier’s breath shudders out of him as he slowly lets his hands unwind and fall by his sides. Taking a small step forward, because he isn’t quite sure on how to hold himself up just yet, he steps closer to the tomb. It looks like the rest, all standing in a line at attention like sentinels. The tips of Jaskier’s fingers dust the lid. Heavy obsidian that somehow manages to catch the light of the torches. Speckles of gold inside catch his eye, and Jaskier sighs.

He presses his fingers into the lid, distantly hoping that Geralt knows he’s there. He’ll stay there until he’s brave enough to step back on to the trails down the mountain. The Continent will just have to carry on without him. Until then, he’ll be here, collecting what he can of his thoughts.

Though, he regards the crypt, it might be a while.

**Author's Note:**

> tumblrs (where you can come and yell at me for this);  
> yourqueenforayear (personal) || agoodgoddamnshot (writing)
> 
> twitter (you can yell at me there too);   
> better_marksman
> 
> Kudos & Comments gladly appreciated (even the ones where you all tell me that you hate me)
> 
> I'm here to fight all of you for causing such grief, but also to laugh 🥰


End file.
